The front door opens before we reach the top of the entrance stairs. Robert Marshal is a film director who had one break-out hit a decade ago. He had a friend within Ruin who got him the contact with our dad. Friendships won’t save you when you’re in debt, however—a lesson he may learn the hard way.
“I said I would meet you,” he mumbles out, appearing shaken we showed up at his home. Did he think we wouldn’t know every detail of his life?
“You did, yet you never confirmed a date and are avoiding calls.” Noah says so coolly, you’d think he was a friend joking around.
“I’ll get the money.” Beads of sweat coat Robert’s forehead. His clothes hang loose on his limbs, the fabric wrinkled like he slept in them.
“We don’t offer extensions, Mr. Marshal. You were made aware of this when you agreed to the terms,” Noah reminds him.
“I’m just moving some things around,” he pants, getting more anxious the longer we stand here. A slight breeze shifts the humid air around, making the heat bearable.
Darting his eyes around the street, Noah says, “Wouldn’t you prefer to take this—?”
“No,” he barks before Noah can even finish the sentence. Turning to look within the house, he pulls the door fully closed behind him.
“I can see you’re having some sort of issue. Lucky for you, we’re very understanding men.” Noah looks to me for confirmation, and I dip my head, agreeing with him. “I’m going to give you one week as a mercy. You’ve been through a lot.”
The man’s eyes go wide, a relieved breath squealing out of him like a deflating balloon. “Really? That would be great. So much appreciated.” He reaches his hand out for Noah to shake.
Fisting his palm, Noah jerks him forward. “It will come at a price, however.” Quick like a cat pouncing on a mouse, Noah removes his cigar cutter from his pocket and slips it over the man’s thumb.
“What are you…?” His words fall short as a pained wail rips from his lungs.
A couple of women passing by shift their eyes, focusing on us as they exchange hushed whispers. I take a step down the stairs, watching them with dark intent. It causes them to scurry on their heels without looking back.
“A week costs you ten percent. Make no mistake, Mr. Marshal, we’ll either be collecting the money or the product straight from your wife’s ribcage,” Noah threatens.
I pull a plastic bag from my inner coat pocket for Noah to drop the thumb into. Blood drips, staining the stoop and the tip of Noah’s shoe.
“See you in a week.”
We depart, leaving Robert standing there in shock, clasping his stump. “I think he’s going to pass out.” I look over my shoulder at him staring at the blood pissing from the wound.
“Not our problem,” Noah grunts, nodding his head in thanks to Caleb.
“It is if he bleeds out,” I snort, getting into the seat opposite him.
“It’s a thumb.” Noah pulls his phone from his pocket, flitting his fingers over the screen. “He’ll live.”
Pulling up at the front entrance of our property, I frown watching the beast of a man who secures the entry squeeze his body into the security house. “What do you think he weighs?”
Noah’s eyes creep up from his screen. “I don’t know. A lot.”
“Do you think he can see his dick?” I smirk.
“I think he’ll eat you if he hears you trash talking.” Noah lifts his brow.
The gates clank open, and we pull forward, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. I offer a wave to the beast of a man before turning my attention back to Noah. “Is that it for the day?”
I don’t accompany him on mundane business, only affairs that could turn sour or when I’m needed to do dirty work. Noah doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, but it makes a statement that he has me to do it for him when he wants. Brains and brawn.
“For you, yes. I may still need you, Caleb. Stick around,” Noah tells the driver when he opens the doors for us to exit.
“Yes, sir.” Caleb jerks his head.
Going straight through to the kitchen, I hold the bag upside down, dumping the thumb into the garbage disposal with a soft thud and switching it on. The blades chomp through it with ease.
“That’s gross.” Noah gestures with a hand. “That’s not how we dispose of body parts.”
“It’s just a thumb.” I shrug. “And the owner is still alive, so who cares?”
“I do. It’s sloppy.”
“Well, feel free to scoop it out. I’m going to shower.” I don’t need to be lectured over sloppy when he cut a man’s thumb off in broad daylight and left him to bleed out.
My feet falter as I come around the railing of the stairs and almost collide with Freya. “Remi.” She ducks her head, sighing a relieved breath.